


Mercenary

by ALittleSliceOfMystique



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: AU, Assassination, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3722704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALittleSliceOfMystique/pseuds/ALittleSliceOfMystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the roof of an office building in Paris like any other, a pair sat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercenary

**Author's Note:**

> This is what you lot get whilst I put the finishing touches on Chapter 2 of my initial series. I /was/ going to finish it off today, really, but then music whisked me away to create this (the song is quite literally 'Mercenary' by Panic! At The Disco, for those who like to have a playlist to read along to). To give them their own series or not? I'll let you guys decide~! ^0^

Click click.

**Bang!**

The aftershock, the little _jolt_ the M110 gave in heavily gloved hands, both spoils smuggled over from America. Down below, a typical scene played out. Its creator was fairly used to it, so he thought nothing of the scurrying masses, all crowding around some European official – Francis didn’t quite remember his name. It was too long, and he was lax with his job. The yells, shouts of outrage, were all a daily occurrence. The hollers of onlookers, normal people now coated a ridiculous shade of red. The utter silence of doting mothers. Explaining why exactly ‘father’ wasn’t coming back. These weren’t exactly his problem. His issue was staying around as long as necessary. He was supposed to be seen this time. Start a conspiracy or two pertaining why exactly a man now had a subtle hole blown straight through his heart, puffed and inflamed flesh oozing his life away, drop by crimson drop. It looked like any other puddle, really… Oh, well. Whatever kept those at home, tapping on their laptops and furrowing their brows happy, he supposed. Maybe he’d have to change his name again… Hopefully so – Jean wasn’t all that sexy of a name, really.

“Decent shot. Doing your job, this time?” The strike of a match, the rustic scent of smoke that followed, intertwining with the air in a long, wafting streak. He didn’t even have to look back to register who this was. His guardian angel, of sorts. The one who usually took control of the situation whenever he noticed Francis falter, hesitant. He had trouble thanking the other for it.

“You will have to forgive me for not being as brutal as you, you know,” a dry retort, Francis stuck out his hand. A cigarette, damp around the filters. Tch. Straight from his mouth… He’d accept it anyway, taking an easy drag before passing it back. “I’m impressed – this time you did not shove me aside and do it yourself. Having a good day?” An exchange of sapphire and viridian. They shared one thing: the way their eyes would glitter amongst the darkness. It was fairly handy, he supposed. That way he could spot whenever the other was a building away, about to aim a shot to the wall beside him playfully. _Playfully_. That was what they had come to.

“You could say so, perhaps. There _is_ also the possibility I wanted to add a hint of drama to this. Picture it, would you? A lone man shoots one of the most powerful men in the continent, then another joins him for a fag.” The grin it brought to the Englishman always passed a spark down his spine. He always looked so…amused. Francis was almost jealous of his finesse. He was everything the Frenchman was not – able to take a shot without a second thought, throw everything on the line for a mere hint of a risk… Though he supposed he had one weakness. Loyalty. As much of a trigger-happy psychopath he must seem, Arthur – he believed that was the other’s name, even if he wouldn’t tell him, it just suited him – was willing to actually step in and protect him. Despite the series of events upon their initiation to this point, the former blond just didn’t want to see him surrender.

“As charming as ever – I thought the English were supposed to be _reserved_ with their feelings?” And it had shaped Francis for the better, he had to admit. They weren’t exactly friends, no, but they at least enjoyed each other’s company. Most of those who’d done so for Francis were…well. Killed. Most of which by the very man who had taken their place. Their companionship kept a smirk on his face, the light in his eyes. “So… What do you have in mind for the rest of your show? You cannot tell me you haven’t been planning.”

From his seat beside Francis, legs dangling over the observation deck and to the streets below, a scoff emerged. “I can’t help but think you know me too well… Anyhow.” And finally, their dual was resumed. Orbitals like the morning’s light…and their counterparts’, the scum at the bottom of the abyss. “What say we add a twist to this?”

“Hm?” Now _this_ was exciting. Arthur’s twists were somewhat exhilarating, he had to admit. He would usually plan something insane, past his or anyone else’s perception, and completely do all trace of information up the arse there and then.

“It goes a little something like this,” he flicked the cigarette, still burning, to the ground, “Follow my lead, now.” Before Francis could so much as switch his perspective, a pair of lips – chapped, bloody – crashed against his own – smooth, perfected – siphoning what little breath he had collected in one fell swoop.

The news report the next day was an interesting one indeed.


End file.
